The Fala Factor tp-9

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “The noise,” said Jules, pointing over his shoulder to the ceiling. “It’s raining. We can’t do sound in here with that.” Jules put his hands on his hips and shook his head.

  “Let’s shoot the scene silent,” said the man who was being strangled, the rope still around his neck. “Cut to a close-up of me and we can add rattling sounds later. You know, like my brains are getting scrambled. Then we do a point of view shot and I can see them moving their mouths, but the rope is so tight around my neck that it’s cutting off my hearing.”

  Jules turned, thought about it, shrugged and said, “It’ll do, Buster.”

  Buster Keaton, who had made the suggestion, put the rope ends back in the hands of the two actors and began supervising his own mock strangulation. He put his tiny hat on the side of his head and said, “Let’s move the camera in and get going.”

  The camera operator said something I couldn’t make out, and Jules called to the actors. “Don’s having some problem with the camera. Let’s take a lunch break.”

  Keaton took off his hat, removed the rope, shook himself off, and started to walk toward a door in the corner. A lighting man turned off the lights and I moved across the set, apparently a living room, and followed Keaton.

  “Mr. Keaton,” I called, catching up to him as he turned. There was no expression on his face as I stepped up. There wasn’t any through our whole conversation. I was a few inches taller than he was and he was a few years older than I had fixed him in my mind. The dead-pan look I remembered from his silent movies was there, but the smooth face had turned to leather, covered by unconvincing light makeup.

  “It’s lunch,” he said.

  “I heard,” I said. “Can I talk to you for a second or two? Won’t take long.”

  “Can’t take long,” he said, waving at me to follow him. “We’ll go to my dressing room.”

  I followed him to his makeshift dressing room, which was normally an office complete with desk, file cabinets, In and Out boxes with dusty paper. He opened the file cabinet, pulled out a bottle and a sandwich. The bottle was bourbon.

  “Drink?” he said, turning to me.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “Good.” He tossed me the sandwich. “You take the liverwurst. I’ll take the bourbon, and I’ll be in Forest Lawn before you.”

  I caught the sandwich as he opened the bottle, poured himself an unhealthy glassful, and sat in the wooden, creaking swivel chair, his little hat still on his head. He took a drink and looked at me.

  “Let me guess,” he said “I owe somebody money and you’ve been sent to collect it?”

  “No,” I said, opening the wrapping of the sandwich, leaning against the wall and taking a bite.

  “If you’re looking for a job,” he went on, “you’ve come to the wrong studio.” He looked around the dusty office. “This production is so cheap we have to finish shooting a two-reeler by four o’clock so we don’t have to buy coffee and sinkers for the six-man cast and crew.”

  “I’m not looking for a job,” I said. “This sandwich is pretty good.”

  “I’ll tell the chef,” Keaton said, toasting me and taking another drink. “I’m out of guesses.”

  “What did those two men bring in here? The ones who just left?”

  Keaton rubbed his nose and considered another drink. The question the bottle had asked him was more important than mine.

  “You want to hear a confession and a declaration?” he said. “This”- his eyes went around the room and looked beyond the door toward the set-“is the bottom. From this, it can only get better. You’re not a reporter, are you? No, you’re not a reporter. You are …”

  “A man who wants to know what two men just brought in here in a wooden crate,” I said, my mouth full of liverwurst.

  “You’re a cop,” Keaton said, his eyelids drooping slightly.

  “Private investigator,” I said. “Name is Peters.”

  “And they’re dognappers,” he said. “I’ve played a detective once or twice, done a lot of crime movies, mostly two-reelers for Educational.”

  “I’ve seen some of them,’’ I said. “Why did you say they were dog-nappers?”

  Keaton took off his hat and balanced it on end on the tip of his finger.

  “Some of those shorts weren’t half bad,” he said. His lower lip came up over his upper as he concentrated on balancing the hat.

  “Dogs,” I reminded him.

  “Not all of them,” he whispered.

  “I didn’t mean the movies,” I said.

  “I know it,” he answered. “A joke. Those two guys sold me a dog. Now I suppose I’ll have to give it back. My own money too. There’s not enough in the budget to hire a dog, and I’ve got a humdinger of a gag.

  “Little dog comes running in, in the last scene, little black Scottie, and the camera moves over to show me, with little glasses and a cigarette holder, a Roosevelt gag. I play Roosevelt and Elmer, my character. We’re in the same shot. Most expensive thing in the movie. Can’t carry it off without special effects and a dog, and you want the dog back.”

  “I think he might be the real thing,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t buy a fake dog,” said Keaton, flipping the hat in the air. It turned over three times and landed neatly on his head.

  “I mean it might really be Roosevelt’s dog,” I explained, pushing away from the wall. “I’ve got reason to believe the guys who sold it to you took the dog. Now things are getting hot and they have to get rid of him.”

  Keaton didn’t say anything, just looked at me blankly, but even in that whithered blankness I could see that he was considering whether I was a special movie nut or a general all-around nut who happened to be sleeping one off in the corner of the warehouse when the movie woke me up.

  “That’s Fala?” he said.

  “I think it could be,” I replied.

  “I was going to call him Fella,” said Keaton. “Why would someone take the president’s dog and then sell it?”

  “That’s what I’m working on,” I said. “Can I see the dog?”

  From beyond the door a woman’s voice called out, “We’ve got it working, Buster. Ready to go again.”

  “Coming,” said Keaton, getting out of the swivel chair. He stepped over to me, almost nose to nose, and looked into my eyes. Then he shrugged and waved for me to follow him again. We moved back out the door and to the right, away from the set, down a dark row of shelves to a caged room that looked like a tool storage space. The dog was sitting in the middle of the room, looking up at us and wagging his tail.

  “I’ll have to take him,” I said.

  “That’s fifty bucks and a good gag ruined,” he said. “And how do I know you’re who you say you are?”

  “I’ve got a number you can call. Ask for Eleanor Roosevelt. Tell her who you are and ask her if she knows who I am,” I said, reaching for the cage.

  “I’ll trust you,” sighed Keaton.

  “Buster,” came the woman’s voice from across the warehouse.

  “Coming,” said Keaton, opening the cage door.

  The dog came running to us wagging his tail and leaped up in Keaton’s arms. The dog stuck his tongue out and licked the actor’s face.

  “Likes the taste of makeup,” Keaton said.

  “Looks that way,” I said, holding out my arms.

  He shrugged and handed me the dog, which was heavier than I thought-which surprised me-but smelled like a dog, which didn’t surprise me. The dog didn’t like me as much as he did Buster and let out a whining sound.

  “I’ll walk you to the door,” Keaton said, petting the dog. “Think you can get my fifty back from those two guys?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

  We had reached the front door through which I had come. The rain was still coming down hard and Keaton reached over to pet the dog once more. “I’ll need a cab,” I said, remembering that Jeremy had taken the car.

  “Wait here,” Keaton said, “I’ll have Apr
il call one for you.”

  Before he could turn, I glanced out the window in the door and got what was probably the shock of my not-young life. The rain soaked hulk of Bass shot up from below the window, blotting out the outside light and glaring at me. I almost dropped the dog, which let out a yelp, and Keaton turned to see Bass stepping through the door.

  Bass, a dripping monster, hulked into the warehouse accompanied by thunder and the sound of dark pouring rain. I backed away clutching the whimpering dog and bumped into Keaton.

  “The dog,” Bass said. His hands were out reaching for the dog.

  “You owe me fifty bucks,” Keaton said solemnly.

  “Let’s let that drop for now,” I said, backing away as Bass, his yellow hair dripping down in front of his eyes, reached out an arm to swat Keaton away.

  Keaton dropped to a squat so quickly that Bass’s swinging arm cracked into a metal shelf. Bass’s face showed no sign of pain or feeling.

  “The dog,” he repeated.

  “Why does Lyle want the dog back?” I asked reasonably. “He just sold it, got rid of it.”

  “The dog,” Bass repeated as I backed into a stack of crates and felt the rough wood against my back.

  “Excuse me, Keaton interrupted, tapping Bass on the shoulder. “I paid fifty bucks for the dog. I say Peters takes it and you give back my fifty.”

  Bass turned his head to the little actor, who barely came up to his chest. Keaton’s jaw jutted out the way it did in Spite Marriage and almost collided with Bass’s chest.

  “He’s a killer,” I warned.

  “Don’t worry,” said Keaton. “I won’t hurt him.”

  Bass was surprisingly fast for a big man, but Jeremy had told me he was. But that was fast for a wrestler. He had never met a Keaton. Bass reached for Keaton’s scrawny throat, but the actor dropped to the floor, rolled over once and came up on Bass’s rear. The dripping killer had a moment of confusion and then turned suddenly as Keaton ducked under his arm. Bass’s hand took the little hat, crushed it, and threw it at the actor, who caught it expertly.

  Bass was now clearly distracted and challenged by this elusive gnat who he obviously didn’t recognize. My impulse was to try to help, but to do that I’d have to put the dog down, which might lead to losing him. Besides, Keaton was doing fine without my help. There wasn’t much room in the small lobby area, but it was too much for Bass to get his hands on Keaton. It was no match. Bass kept trying to cut off the space like a good clobbering puncher in the ring, but Keaton kept ducking right, left, or under his arms.

  After two or three minutes, Bass was panting and damned mad and a voice behind me said, with exasperation, “Come on Buster, you can play with your friends later. We’ve got a crew waiting.”

  The man called Jules stepped into the space, towel around his neck, and watched for a few seconds before turning to me to whisper, “Big guy’s not bad. Kind of scary. We could use him in the picture.”

  “I don’t think he’s got the calling,” I said as Bass bellowed and took a massive plunge at Keaton, who seemed about to run into the front door, but made a sudden, impossible stop, pushed off the wall with his right foot and barely cleared Bass’s outstretched arm. Bass crashed heavily, headfirst into the wall, sagging apparently unconscious to the floor.

  “Christ, Buster,” Jules grunted. “If you’ve hurt that guy, we can’t even pay the doctor bills.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Just lock him in the cage back there and feed him once a week.”

  Keaton brushed himself off and moved to my side to pat the panting dog once more. He wasn’t even breathing heavily.

  “I’ll have April get the cab for you, and we’ll call the cops to take our friend away,” said Keaton.

  Our backs were to Bass and Jules had shouted, “Let’s get back to work.”

  Something hit me hard and low and Keaton bounced away from a whirring arm. I spun into a corner and found my hands reaching for something to keep me from falling, which was why I knew I was no longer holding the dog.

  When I did hit the wall and slumped down, I could see Bass in the doorway holding the barking dog. Keaton took a step toward him, but Bass had had enough. He opened the door and disappeared into the rain.

  “I’ll get him,” Keaton said.

  “No,” I groaned. “He’s my responsibility.”

  I did a poor imitation of a man running and followed Bass into the rain, but he was out of sight by the time I hit the street. A car, big and dark but not Lyle’s Chrysler, was kicking up mud from the parking lot. I ran toward it but it made a right and shot off along the railroad tracks.

  Keaton was still in the warehouse lobby when I sogged back in.

  “No luck,” he said.

  “I’ll get your fifty,” I promised.

  “I’d rather have the dog,” he said.

  Keaton went back to the set and I waited, watching the rain and trying to reach back to rub the spot over my kidney where Bass had heaved me into the cartons. The rain was doing my back no good either, but I ignored it reasonably well by wondering what Bass had been doing there, where Lyle was, and where Jeremy was.

  A Red Top cab pulled up in about ten minutes-which, considering the rain, was pretty good service. The woman driver reached back to open the back door and I made a dash for it. The rain was letting up a little as I filled the cab with water.

  The cabbie wasn’t a talker, which suited me just fine. I watched the rain while she drove me back to Hollywood. By the time we got to Mrs. Plaut’s boarding house, the rain had stopped and I owed the cabbie a buck twenty.

  “Pretty soon, there maybe ain’t gonna be no cabs,” she said, accepting a quarter tip. “No gas. No rubber. No parts. No cabs.”

  “You have a good day,” I said, getting out and walking slowly to the porch.

  I had been walking with my head down. My back hurt less that way, so I didn’t see Jeremy sitting in the swing till I actually took the first of three wooden steps.

  “I lost them,” he said.

  “That’s all right, Jeremy,” I said, making it up the last step.

  “I managed to get close enough once to see that Bass wasn’t in the car,” he went on. “I don’t know where he went. I think they spotted me following them.”

  “They did,” I said, reaching for the front door. “Bass came back for the dog Lyle probably figured it would be safe to hide the dog by selling it to Keaton.”

  “Keaton.”

  “Buster Keaton,” I explained. “They could always steal it again when they needed it. They spotted you and decided the plan wouldn’t work.

  “I’m sorry, Toby,” he said, getting off the porch swing.

  “For what? I’ll invite you to the next party I throw for Bass.”

  “A shriek ran thro Eternity:

  And a paralytic stroke;

  At the birth of the human shadow.”

  “I think William Blake knew our friend Bass.”

  With that Jeremy declined my offer of a ride and I declined his offer to help me upstairs. With hands plunged into oversized windbreaker pockets, he went down the stairs, and I watched the muscle folds on the rear of his neck as he moved down the walk.

  I was an easy target for Mrs. Plaut, a slow-moving target, but she wasn’t in the house. It took me a long time to get up the stairs, but I wasn’t in a hurry. It took me even longer to get to my room and get my clothes off, but I had stopped to turn on the hot water in the bathtub and I knew there was no hurry.

  I soaked in the warm tub for half an hour after taking one of the pills Shelly had given me for pain resulting from a series of encounters over the years. The pills were designed for sore teeth but they did a hell of a temporary job on an aching back.

  A new tenant in the boarding house, a Mr. Waltrup, knocked at the door in the middle of my bath to announce the urgent need for a toilet. I bid him enter, which he did with apologies, and we carried on a brief discussion about Mr. Waltrup’s profession, tree trimming. />
  I learned all I wanted to know about tree trimming in the next five or six minutes.

  “There really isn’t much privacy here is there?” Waltrup said, buttoning himself. He was a solid young man with a nice blue eye and a false brown one that didn’t match.

  “Not much,” I agreed, sinking back into the water and turning the hot tap on with my toes.

  Shriveled and soaked, I felt much better and made my way back to my room with a towel around my waist. Mrs. Plaut’s head was peeking up at the top of the stairs.

  “This isn’t a good time, is it Mr. Peelers?” she said.

  “Not a good time at all,” I said.

  She turned and went back down the stairs and I entered my room, groaned my way into a pair of undershorts, managed to down a partly used bottle of Pepsi in the refrigerator, and then eased myself onto the mattress on the floor. I clutched the extra pillow and found it impossible to imagine getting up and making another run at finding the dog and Doc Olson’s killer.

  I didn’t sleep. I just lay there for an hour watching the Beech-Nut clock and trying to put something together to tell Eleanor Roosevelt. Nothing came by three in the afternoon but a knock at the door.

  I sat up in my shorts and watched Eleanor Roosevelt enter my room. She stopped for a beat, looked down at me without embarrassment, and said, “I’ll give you a few moments to dress.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I have sons and have seen a male body before,” she said, with a little smile and a lot of teeth. “I’ll wait in the hallway.”

  Struggling to my feet wasn’t half as bad as knowing that I really didn’t have much to get dressed in. I put on some wrinkled trousers and a pull-over shirt and looked at my room through different eyes. It wasn’t much. I pushed the mattress back on the bed, threw the handmade spread over it, gathered my sopping suit, threw it in the closet, and went to the door to let her in.

  “Sorry about the place,” I said, stepping back. “But this is how the other two-thirds live.”

  She was wearing a thin, black coat and carrying a black oversized purse.

  “Mr. Peters,” she said. “I have seen squalor in New York that you can imagine only faintly. You live on a safe street, in a clean home. There is nothing to be ashamed of in that.”